When he was caught dealing drugs in Crumlin, we was given “Fiftain to loife,”
It’s horseheaded footballing demigod, Johan “I’m dead now” Cruyff
That’s about as respectful an obituary as I’ve ever done.
“Hey I’m Michael Jackson, are ya 7? Can I touch ya little pantpants?”
He wasn’t even cold in the ground. Latoya was devvo.
As is the way of the Mark, I’m writing this from my airport pimpman-lair. Selection of fruit I have derisively ignored? Check.
This week I have been in Geneva, home to ludicrously complex watches made of golden gossamer and of course piles of everyone else’s birthday money slathered in chocolate. Switzerland is the kind of nice place that normally would like to scoop filth like me off the streets into big buckets and feed me to their human livestock.
They got made into Soylent Green. I got made into Zohlen Groon, the ALDI equivalent.
But the scum also rises and I got to have a quick wander and lunch in the city before heading out to the rurality where two of my relatives live. It’s all relat-live. Sorry. They, like everyone here are big time bankery types though if you listened to them you’d think they were doing the grouting.
“HSBC, now those were lads who could put up some tiles.”
They live out in the countryside (10 minutes from the city centre) in a little burg called Nyon. Like garish lighting namesake, this pretty town has attracted some sleaze-cicles in the shape of UEFA. Skulking around their city limits, compiling their “exotic massage” budgets for the next major football tournament and trying to squeeze the last golden eggs out of the sputtering overheated goose that is football. “Dya know who doesn’t have a team in the Champions League? Kim Jong Un. Get him on the fecking phone lad!”
As these bubbling turds play fast and loose with the dreams of broken down men everywhere (which is all men, let’s be honest), the town around them gets on with a semi-rural lifestyle of locally grown meat and 20 minutes of skiing before breakfast.Did I mention that it’s surrounded on all sides by crystal lake water and the frigging Alps?
It’s like when Jean-Luc Picard goes home to his bollocks of a brother. A bit down on the farm plus a magic cube in the kitchen that grants all your wishes.
In Star Trek it was called a replicator, in Switzerland it’s a heaving box of swag and dubloons.
Incidentally, if Picard was so bloody French that he grew up on a vineyard for crying out loud did he still speaking thick Yawkshah like he was “Down’ mine-shaft at fawteen, wuhkin 37 hour a day foh thruppeny bit and lick of a tuhnip?” It is surely the single greatest unanswered question in the Star Trek universe. The second being whether George Takei’s unrepentant and dominating heterosexuality was ever tested by even his most attractive male colleagues.
The answer is obviously no like, but it’s cool to wonder
Anyway, Switzerland. A nation of contrasts.
It’s nice, so I say less about it. That’s how the blog works.
My neighbour, what a douche (you’re catching on now right?) He is a weirdly one. When we moved in he screamed obscenities from his livingroom at our delivery guy as he brought up our furniture.
<paused at the top of stairs and scowled at the closed door> “Awright mate.”
Then he put a note under our door complaining of the sound of footfalls. We were guilty of that to be fair, having lifted a foot… and then replacing it on the floor. But the worst part of that is he wrote it in Notepad. Who uses bloody Notepad for anything?! A computer programme that was made redundant by the time Bill Gates got his first bigboy hair! Something only used by people writing threatening letters to Abraham Lincoln or writing a mediocre recipe for Dodo eggs.
I struggled with that joke, just because writing a note in Notepad is that weird, it’s even kind of hard to mock in a targeted way. The real choice wad of meat was when he got caught in the lift three months after we moved in, 2 in the morning on a Saturday Night (capitalised in respect of the 1993 hit by Whigfield) thrashing about in there, screaming obscenities until myself and a neighbour in our little nightpants ventured into the hall to attempt to open the door with a butterknife (end score -1 butterknife) and eventually have to call the fire brigade. After chatting with him to calm him down, I let him know I was going down to the front door to let them in.
3 minutes passed.
The lift never worked again. He’s a real peach.
He could eat a peach for hours. But he never made me climb stairs.
Apart from loud videogames, complaining that our extractor fan empties into his apartment (turn on YOUR extractor fan perhaps?) there is one more sign that he is obviously and completely devoid of human decency. I have never saw him wear trousers. Not once. Even outside. Or in winter.
We thought maybe he was, like a wounded war vet, living off his pension for being in hero squad and killing so many… of the enemies. Quivering with PTSD every time he saw a pair of full length trousers.
But now we think he works from home, eating the caterpillar and throwing the lettuce away, cackling as the elderly are smacked by trains on Youtube and balancing an opened, upside-down but full yoghurt pot on his corncob while talking to similarly-minded perverts on no-video Skype calls.
Or maybe it’s just me that thinks that.
In other news, I have joined the bloodsport that is a London commute. Complete with a wake-up time more than 2 hours what I’ve been used to, train carriages so tightly packed I can unwillingly get double the action I got in my first 3 years of secondary school in a single morning and the calibre of doucherag that thinks it’s a good thing to take one of those long skateboards while wearing a high-vis rucksack. I can see you. You are an idiot. And you are not smart.
On the upside, the most valuable thing about me is no longer my kidney, but my railpass.
One in the eye for the organ-harvesters out there.
Neighboner of Leek